


Far Across the Distance

by Storybook_Wolf



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Jancy Fic Week, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 07:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storybook_Wolf/pseuds/Storybook_Wolf
Summary: Edwardian high society lady meets working-class artist...On board the RMS Titanic, wealthy heiress Nancy Hawkins Wheeler is sailing home to America, where her family expects her to raise their social standing even further by marrying a young man from one of New York society's best families. But Nancy isn't sure that's what she really wants anymore. And when she meets a handsome young steerage passenger named Jonathan Byers, she finds herself drawn to him...





	Far Across the Distance

Nancy Hawkins Wheeler gazed out across the prow of the RMS _Titanic_ , taking in the endless vista of ocean. Europe was behind her, and far ahead was America. It should have been a comforting thought, returning home, but in this moment it felt anything but.

For the past three months, she had been on a European tour with her brother, Michael, and her father, Theodore Wheeler – though he seldom took the time to enjoy any of the sights with them, instead staying tethered to the telegraph to keep in touch with his business interests back in New York. Hawkins Wheeler was one of the largest financial institutions in America, having been created from the merger of two already-significant firms when her parents married.

And now it was Nancy’s turn to continue the family tradition of advantageous marriages. Her father intended her union to not bring the family more money – for heaven knows they had plenty of that – but class. They were being joined on their return journey by her fiancé, Stephen Harrington, the scion of one of New York society’s oldest families.

Nancy had known Stephen for almost two years, seeing him regularly at the balls, operas and croquet matches that formed the social calendar of a young lady of her station. He was handsome, charming, well-educated and universally liked – everything she had been raised to want in a husband. Everything she _did_ want, in fact – or at least everything she had wanted until this trip. Six months ago they had become engaged, and their wedding was now to take place in seven weeks. (The need to oversee the planning for the society wedding of the year had been Mrs Wheeler’s reason for not joining them on their tour, though Nancy suspected her mother was still finding plenty of time for lessons with her handsome riding instructor, Mr Hargrove.)

Though her dear friend Barbara had playfully joked about this trip being her last taste of freedom before marriage, Nancy had never seen it that way. She’d looked forward contentedly to being Mrs Harrington, setting up her own household and, in the next few years, becoming a mother. But this trip had awakened something within her. As she wandered down a narrow laneway in Rome, listening to her younger brother passionately retell the stories of ancient Roman gods, she’d been struck by the fact that no one in this place knew her – no one would be reporting back to her parents that they had seen her, or whispering behind their hands at some remark she had made. She could be completely herself, and ‘herself’ could be whoever she might choose. For the first time in her life, it occurred to Nancy Wheeler that she might not want to follow the path that had been so carefully plotted out for her all the way back in the 1880s, when her grandparents brought Corinne Hawkins and Theodore Wheeler together.

As she gazed at the horizon, she felt a tingling sensation, and realised that someone was watching her. Turning abruptly, she saw a young man with a folding field camera facing towards her. From the blush that rose in his cheeks as he noticed her turn to him, it was clear that his lens had been focused on her.

Suddenly emboldened, Nancy felt the urge to walk over to him. As she drew closer, she saw that he was about her age, with very fair skin and shaggy brown hair held back from his face by a grey tweed flat cap

‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said. ‘Did you just take a photograph of me?’

He blushed and stammered a reply, cutting his eyes away from her as he spoke. ‘Er – yes, miss. I’m so sorry, I should have asked permission, I know, it’s just – it made such a perfect composition, you looking out across the water like that.’

He had an English accent – Northern, she thought, though she couldn’t place it exactly. She’d passed most of her tour on the Continent, but had spent enough time in England to realise that each square mile of the country seemed to have its own accent, at least among the working classes.

And this young man was definitely from the working classes. His dark clothes looked well cared-for, but were clearly not new, and were made from coarse materials. But there was nothing coarse about him. His features were fine and delicate, his face an arrangement of angles and planes that called to mind the marble sculptures she had seen across Italy and Greece. His hands, too, were delicate, she noted as she cast her eyes down to where they rested on his camera. They were an artist’s hands, she thought.

Aware that she was staring – and being scandalously bold altogether – she shifted her gaze to the camera that stood between them on a wooden tripod. It was a field camera, tiny in comparison to the one she had posed for in a New York studio for a portrait to mark her debutante season. The lens was on the front of a leather bellows that must have retracted into the body of the camera. It looked as though the whole device could be packed into a case no bigger than the valise in which Father had carried his business papers across Europe.

‘What a fascinating contraption,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen one so easily portable before.’

He smiled shyly. ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Made by the Century company. I sold almost all of my belongings to pay for my passage, but I’d never part with her. After all, this is how I intend to make my living in New York.’

Nancy cocked one eyebrow. ‘By taking photographs of unsuspecting persons?’

Though she had meant them lightly, he looked pained at her words. ‘I’m so sorry, miss, I didn’t mean any offence, it's just that … I’d intended to take a picture of the scenery, but I find photographs with people in them much more interesting. That’s why I like portraits. Sometimes, people don't really say what they're really thinking. But when you capture the right moment, it says more. That’s what I try to do, I suppose.’

Everything he’d said prior to this had been delivered haltingly, with blushes and eyes cast to one side. But when he spoke about his work, an ease came over him, and his soft brown eyes looked directly at her. There was something hypnotic about seeing someone who knew themselves so well, who had a purpose in life and could speak so passionately about it.

‘That sounds marvellous,’ she said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Jonathan Byers, Miss,’ he said, with a nod and a shy smile.

She smiled back, feeling colour rise in her cheeks. But then a voice from across the deck broke their reverie. ‘Nancy! There you are.’

It was Stephen. Her dashing fiancé strode towards them, grinning. He looked perfectly at ease here on the ship. In fact, he looked perfectly at ease wherever he was – it was his great gift, part of the confidence and privilege that came with his position in the world.

For a moment she was concerned that he might be upset or jealous to find her talking with a strange man, but he seemed entirely unperturbed. It occurred to her that a gentleman like Stephen Harrington would never register an unassuming lower-class young man like Jonathan as any sort of competition.

‘Your brother and I have been looking everywhere for you,’ he said.

‘Goodness, I’m so sorry to have worried you,’ she replied. ‘I was just talking to Mr Byers here about his plans to open his own photography studio in New York.’

Stephen beamed at Jonathan as though noticing his presence for the first time. ‘Really? How splendid! I know it’s been around for decades now, but photography still seems like some kind of dark magic to me. Someone points a machine at you and then – hey presto! There’s a tiny version of you, frozen forever on paper. Did you know there are some tribes who believe the camera actually steals a little piece of your soul every time your picture is taken?’

The English man smiled politely. ‘I have heard that, sir.’

‘Well I think that’s a nonsensical superstition,’ interjected Nancy. ‘In fact, I propose we prove that we don’t believe it by having Mr Byers take our portraits, to commemorate our journey. All four of us – you, me, Father and Michael.’ _It will be a perfect opportunity to spend more time talking to him_ , she thought to herself. She turned to Jonathan and smiled broadly. ‘We can be your first New York clients.’

He smiled back. ‘That would be grand, Miss– I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Nancy Wheeler,’ she said, giving the abbreviated version. For some reason, that double-barrelled name felt like an affectation in this moment, and she didn’t want him to see her as some artificial society doll.

‘And I’m Stephen Harrington,’ Stephen said, thrusting his hand out to shake Jonathan’s. ‘Her fiancé.’

Well, well. Perhaps Stephen did see Jonathan as a competitor after all.

They made plans to meet again the following day, and Stephen and Nancy walked off arm in arm. Her fiancé chattered away about the British aristocrats who he’d met in the dining room the previous evening, but it was Jonathan’s voice that rang in her ears. _People don't say what they're really thinking. But when you capture the right moment, it says more._

 _What was I saying when you took my picture?_ she wanted to ask him. She wasn’t sure why, but she suspected that this handsome, artistic stranger knew exactly what she’d been thinking. That he might know her better than anyone, including her family and the man she was supposed to marry.


End file.
